by Ben Pastor
Lattmann rolled his eyes.” I think the Kiev Branch is safe. Besides, you said you’d sought Zossen directly.”
“Right, and yesterday morning I was alone in the room when I did. Could it be someone in Zossen?”
“Not in Bentivegni’s own office, I don’t believe. But if we’re tapped, we’re tapped everywhere. Hell, this is fucking serious.”
“It was a ten-minute blitz, carried out as one does against hostile forces. They broke in as soon as I left for the rail station, so they might possibly have timed my departure. They couldn’t have known I’d stop by the district commissioner’s office on my way back; but even if I hadn’t, what with the train’s delay, what with having to take care of the general’s women instead of driving them directly to the detention centre, I wouldn’t have returned to town in time. Not even if I drove straight to the station and back.”
“Well, if Khan refuses to negotiate with them —”
“The Leibstandarte tank men will be disappointed if they want to learn from him where we took the T-34: I never told him. But it depends on what he wants out of his defection, Bruno. Through Amt VI, the Reich Security Central Office may be able to offer it, or pretend they do. At the restaurant, that damned Odilo Mantau looked like the cat that ate the canary. Khan’s open show of familiarity with our nomenclature is odd; I don’t know if it’s arrogance or foolhardiness. If he’s an Abwehr operative or has otherwise been working for us, he probably came over because his cover was about to blow, but to me he wouldn’t say a thing: he was keeping everything for Colonel Bentivegni. If I’m correct, he’s ours by rights, and this morning’s raid is a direct attack against counterintelligence on Kaltenbrunner’s part.”
They were standing in a green patch of low grass, where Lattmann paced back and forth with his arms folded. “Oh, shit, oh, shit,” he hissed under his breath, red to the roots of his wiry crew cut, and began to chew on his nails. “Our asses are on the line. We saw how they brought down General Oster last month.”
“Not to speak of Old White Head.”
A mention of Admiral Canaris, exonerated in the spring from Abwehr direction, was sure to incense Lattmann even more. Never mind that to the eyes of younger officers the commanders were not without fault. “It’s starting to smell like a goddamned purge. What do you think?”
Bora looked away from his friend’s nail-chewing. He shook his head, which of course didn’t mean he had discounted that possibility. “They expect me to try to directly contact Bentivegni’s office or even III C, where Breuer is our liaison to RSHA, but I’ll bypass them. I’ll avoid Kiev as well. I’m off to Rogany, to see if the pilots there will let me use Luftwaffe short-wave equipment. Some at II JG 3 are my brother Peter’s old colleagues; I trust they will.”
“The Central Security Office will track an incoming message to Bentivegni even if you call from an airfield!”
“But I won’t.” Bora reached for Lattmann’s left wrist and tilted it to read the time on his watch. Restarting and winding his own, he said, “I’ll get in touch with our people in Rome and let them scout out the colonel for me. It’s imperative for him or for another III C top rank to fly in as quickly as possible. On my way here I stopped by the Tractor Factory to warn Scherer in person, before someone got the idea of snatching the T-34 from under our noses. He and I handled the tank’s transfer directly, so they couldn’t possibly track us, and in fact the SS Tank Corps policemen never showed up on Lui Pastera Street. Besides, Field Marshal Manstein was better than his word: the T-34 had already boarded the train for Zaporozhye at dawn. Yes, at this hour Scherer and his men will be gone as well. Say, who have we got in Rome now?”
Lattmann gave respite to his battered fingertips and cracked his knuckles instead. “Until the end of the year it ought to be Ralph, Ralph Uckermann: you know him, he’s married to an Italian girl. He’s still recovering from his Stalingrad wounds, but he’s back on active duty. You watch, Martin, the Security Central Office will either close us down or take us over; I don’t know what’s worse.”
“I know what’s worse.” Bora started walking towards his vehicle. “You never saw me just now, Bruno. Don’t even tell Bentivegni if he asks.”
Evening came before the day’s chores were done. Bora reached Hospital 169 with a throbbing headache, the sign of a rising fever. Dr Mayr, the army surgeon, was in the operating room, and there was a long wait before they could talk. Bora spent an interminable hour and a half by the clock on the ward wall, walking up and down past a number of closed doors. Without as much as removing his bloody gloves, the Oberstarzt heard his request and indifferently agreed to leave Platonov’s body in presentable shape, but otherwise acted ill-disposed towards the visitor, dismissing him with a “Yes, yes, goodnight.”
An entire wing of the hospital building, in imminent danger of collapse, was boarded off with nailed planks. The wards Bora walked past on his way out housed those maimed by mines and grenades, or severely injured while hunting (or being hunted by) partisan bands. They’re tearing us apart piece by piece, he gloomily told himself. When it’s over, Russian soil will be fertilized by shreds of dismembered German flesh. We killed millions, they killed millions. All of us manure for the fields out there.
In the vestibule, something stopped him cold. As if thoughts could materialize, his impression was that someone, disembodied from the knees up, was emerging at an angle from the earth, someone who halted when he did, stood still even as he did. It took him a few seconds to recognize the image of his own tall, spur-clad riding boots reflected in a broken mirror leaning tilted against the wall on the floor by the doorway.
It was unadvisable returning alone to Merefa in the dark; Bora did not bother to leave the hospital garden where he’d parked. He had a handful of hard tack in his vehicle: he chewed on it, drank from his canteen and fell asleep in the front seat.
4
Thursday 6 May, Merefa. Written at the outpost, 7.38 a.m.
Washed and shaved at Hospital 169 this morning, and sucked on the bottom of my fuel tank in order to arrive here. Kostya is off with the specific duty of getting me a 25-litre can of gasoline, even if he has to steal it. A review of more potential officers for the regiment begins at 8 a.m. sharp. The same was supposed to happen for non-coms this afternoon, but I have to pick up Colonel Bentivegni at Rogany at 4 p.m. (see below), so their interviews will be postponed. The non-coms are particularly important. I do hope I can get Nagel back, because I can trust him with the choice of filling the positions at those levels: one less thing to worry about. After Stalingrad he was promoted to Regimental Sergeant Major. I recommended him for a decoration as well, and will see that he gets it if he hasn’t already. My life will be easier if I have him, but it may be early June before he arrives.
I’m still reeling from yesterday’s events. By the time I fell asleep behind the wheel, Kiev learnt of Platonov’s death (they were understandably put out); Colonel Bentivegni was informed of Tibyetsky’s unconscionable kidnapping (I can’t use another word) and anticipated his arrival in 24 hours’ time; for what it’s worth, I delivered Khan’s provisions to SS Hauptsturmführer Mantau, about whom I know more than he imagines. We all spy on one another, and after the so-called “Ten Points” we had to agree on a year ago with Amt IV, the Central Security Office has leeway to interfere with our activities in the occupied territories. Mantau belongs to Amt IV E5, so I can only make a fuss about the mode of Khan’s removal. As it was (and still is) my strong suspicion that they might try to shut down our special detention centre, I drove back there after connecting with Bentivegni, to make sure I’d left nothing behind for Odilo Mantau to rummage through, just in case.
What a difference a day makes! Yesterday at this time the old man was still alive, and Khan/Uncle Terry was sipping orange drink from a gold-rimmed goblet that now lies in pieces on the floor. I stepped on glass shards when I first went into his room after the raid. Later, when I returned in the afternoon to retrieve his empty trunk and vainglorious photograph (it reads Narodnay
a Slava – National Glory, no less! – in pencil behind it), I thoroughly searched the premises, as if there were clues for me to follow. What was I looking for?
It is checkmate, nothing less. No use recriminating about Headquarters’ insistence that Khan be kept in Kharkov, after I all but begged them to let me fly him out of Rogany or Krestovoy. He’d have been safe at our interrogation camp near Frankfurt, or at Colonel Gehlen’s Foreign Army East HQ in East Prussia. I daresay Khan would have been safer even in Merefa. Now, as the chess expert he claims to be, he will be tempted to play the Central Security Office against us, selling himself to the highest bidder. Over there, they’ll do anything to learn about our network as much as they will to hear about STAVKA’s plans.
As for the Kiev Branch Office, they’ll start working at once on what we got out of Platonov (Lattmann will hand-deliver the packet to ensure there are no more interferences). It must be said they were against the use of the general’s family to convince him to talk; I insisted it would be the only method, and still believe this. Did shock (hope, surprise) contribute to his death? Mayr said no, but he wasn’t in the room while I grilled the old man. Am I sorry he died? Only because I didn’t obtain all I wanted. I’d have shot him without regret at least three times during his detention, because of his arrogant attitude and (especially) for trying to buy me off.
The more I think about it, the more his attempted bribery puzzles me. I wish I’d asked him what he meant, but I didn’t want to appear interested. If it wasn’t mere braggadocio or a bluff, did the “something else” Platonov spoke of have any role in his Purge trial? Some of the top ranks were accused of profiteering, in addition to the usual charges of diversionism and espionage. And now, even the one man who might possibly know something about it is out of my reach. Not that Khan Tibyetsky would necessarily be inclined to tell, but he did seem – what’s the word? – glad, or even relieved, that his old colleague had died. Of course, if Uncle Terry sat as a witness against him during the Purge, after Platonov was rehabilitated their relations might have been strained, to say the least.
It exasperates me that I lost two prize catches in one week; not good at all for my fine performance as an interrogator thus far. But if in the first case I might have been too heavy-handed, in the second there was nothing I could have done to keep it from happening.
Khan–Terry is an acquired and remote member of our enlarged family; still, he’s a Soviet star of the highest magnitude. My connection with him was the very reason I was chosen to carry out research about him in Moscow: the Abwehr saw it as a plus. I wonder how it might be seen by the Central Security Office if it comes out. Oh well. Will he keep his word, and speak to no one but our own Colonel Bentivegni? Or will he be enticed into sharing the wealth of his knowledge anyway? Rightly employed, a defector’s information will benefit our military aims, no matter where it is deposited.
All the same, the raid marks a serious escalation in the infighting between intelligence services. We’ve lost much ground since our 1936 protocol with RSHA on mutual responsibilities and areas of competence. What does it mean for us who work in the field? As Grandfather Wilhelm Heinrich was reported to have quoted African wisdom (after his stint in the German Cameroon), “Where two elephants engage in combat, the grass below is thoroughly mashed.”
Oh, and a shock to start the day. The grumpy Oberstarzt saw me in the hospital vestibule early this morning and told me – implying that it was my fault or by my order – that his young medic is being transferred without notice. No such thing, I told him just as curtly. “What do you expect me to do? Sudden reassignment is routine.” Still, I wonder. They were so put out at our Kiev office, Weller could be a victim of Platonov’s passing. Dr Mayr waved in disgust and grumbled something about the general’s post-mortem and calling me about the results before nightfall.
At 7.50 a.m. Kostya was back with the fuel. Judging by the state of his boots and white canvas trousers, he’d stepped through a sluice or wetland to get it, and Bora had a hunch where he’d gone pilfering (the army-run sheds and deposit by the river).
“Kostya,” he said, “where are the babushkas? I want to have a word with them before they start work.”
The young man clapped his hands, as if he’d just remembered something he ought to have said before. “They weren’t on the train, povazhany Major. The conductor told me they were made to get off at Pokatilovka.”
“A station earlier? Why? By whom?”
“I took the liberty of asking. The guards on the train said they were needed elsewhere, that’s all. I went to Pokatilovka, and they weren’t there either.”
“And I signed them out!”
Bora immediately called the district commissioner’s office. Stark wasn’t in yet, but his assistant assured him they knew nothing of it. “That’s highly irregular. I am not at liberty to look in the commissioner’s desk, but we’ll see what we can do, Major.”
Until 1 p.m., Bora interviewed ten promising officers, a couple of whom he knew well and was glad to meet again. It started thundering around noon; the light coming through the windows dimmed more and more, and eventually the weather took a turn for the worse. By the time the officers left, it smelt like rain. Hoping it would not start pouring in earnest, with all that it meant to dirt roads and parking spaces everywhere, Bora walked to the doorstep to look at the sky. A radiant azure overarched the horizon of the Donets. Towards it, sweeping from the Poltava region, a storm front drew an immense fan of dusty grey, the colour of ostrich feathers: strong, high altitude winds must be driving it eastwards. Westwards, all was ink-black and gravid with lightning. It must be pouring in Kiev, where Bentivegni was expected to make a stop before flying to Kharkov. At the edge of the schoolyard, Kostya, in off-white canvas fatigues that looked phosphorescent in the muted light, gathered the hens. He pointed out the storm clouds to Bora and wagged his head to mean there was trouble ahead.
Ordinarily, it would take between an hour and an hour and half to travel to the airfield. Bora decided to leave no later than 2 p.m., to be on the safe side. When Stark’s assistant called back to suggest an appointment first thing in the morning, so that the matter of the vanishing babushkas could be discussed, he took his time. Bentivegni would have many questions for him regarding Khan Tibyetsky, and possibly Platonov as well. “I won’t be able to confirm until this evening,” he said. “What time does your office open?”
“The district commissioner will be out of town later in the day, so he plans to be at his desk as early as 07.00 hours.”
“If you don’t hear from me, it means I’ll not be able to make it, and we’ll have to reschedule.”
Heavy rain had started to fall in the meantime. Coin-sized drops punched the dirt heaped on the graves, made a drumming sound on the canvas top of Bora’s vehicle; Kostya’s pail let out a clacking noise as water gathered at its bottom. The ostrich-coloured clouds had folded across the sky, in a green scent of wet leaves and grass. Bora did some mental reckoning, having flown (in good weather) the route Bentivegni was to follow: leaving Berlin at 6 a.m., after a flight of two-and-a-half hours he would reach Warsaw at 8.30 a.m.; averaging a twenty-minute layover for refuelling, and considering the three-and-a-half hours of the next leg, he’d be in Kiev at about 12.20 p.m., or 1.20 p.m. local time. Half an hour of layover and two more hours in the air meant he would be landing at Kharkov–Rogany just before 4 p.m. In good weather.
But the conditions were going from bad to worse. At 1.45 p.m., Bora telephoned the airfield’s Luftwaffe personnel for last-minute information about the weather in Kiev. They told him rain was reported, but knew of no particular difficulties to flights in and out of the city. He left for Rogany shortly thereafter, unaware that Bentivegni had already been delayed by adverse conditions in Warsaw, and was running nearly two hours late; as a matter of fact, he hadn’t yet been able to board the Kiev-bound plane.
Despite the many spots where muddy streams had spread gravel and dirt across the road, Bora reached the vicin
ity of the airfield well in advance of the scheduled landing. Through the windshield, the stormy sky was dramatic, a study in contrast worthy of a grand painting. It might be worth taking the time, he thought. At reduced speed, he approached a dirt lane to the left and turned on to it. On his map, he’d pencil-marked (so that it could be erased) a wooded area near Podvorki, cleft by a picturesque gully known as Drobytsky Yar. Before the war, there had been a therapeutic colony in the vicinity, but it was all deserted now, trees and fleeing birds under a spectacular play of rain clouds. Bora allowed himself the small detour, putting the camera he had carried along since the Polish campaign to good use.
At Rogany, German fighters were grounded by bad weather. Four p.m. came and went, and then another hour, and another. Bora was worried. At the control tower they had no details on Bentivegni’s flight, and were inclined to think it had not left Kiev. This was only confirmed after 6 p.m., when Bora was told that worsening meteorological conditions in central Ukraine had forced the pilot to cancel the flight altogether. With more than five hundred kilometres separating Kiev from Kharkov, any attempt to travel by land – unadvisable at night, on unsafe, poor roads – would not deliver the colonel to his destination before the morning. Bora had to wait another half-hour to learn that, weather permitting, Bentivegni would be departing Kiev at 7.45 a.m. the following day, and would land at around 9.45 a.m. not at Rogany but at the Aerodrome, Kharkov’s landing field by the horse track, on the highway to Belgorod. “Do you know where that is, Major?”
“I know where that is, thank you.”
He left the airfield in the pelting rain. An entire afternoon of work had been wasted, but there was no arguing with thunderstorms. Every hour Khan Tibyetsky passed in RSHA custody increased the possibility that he would strike a deal with them, even though – considering how temperamental he was – a refusal to meet his demands regarding food and other comforts might make him ill-disposed toward his new hosts.
